


From Within

by itsnicenottobesoalone



Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Frustrated Sherlock, Language, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, future fluff, future smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1349242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsnicenottobesoalone/pseuds/itsnicenottobesoalone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With a new and possibly very threatening villain texting Sherlock, warning him about John Watson's possible peril, the consulting detective must not only keep his favorite blogger safe, but work through feelings he is certain will never be reciprocated. Or will they?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Void

**Author's Note:**

> This is chaptered! Thought may or may not be updated a ton, its going to be long if I have my say.  
> There WILL BE SMUT IN THE STORY SO IF YOU ARENT INTO THAT PLEASE READ NO FURTHER.  
> Also, this goes without saying, I have no beta...so sorry if there are earth shattering mistakes that prevent you from enjoying the story.

A man infected with the disease commonly referred to as love will do most anything, should he detest the emotion that is festering away in his heart, to relieve himself of such a thing. For someone who prides himself on being married to his work, on never closing a case until all possible answers have been uncovered, on being so cold and distant with anyone who so much as comes within ten meters of him, Sherlock Holmes has found himself plagued. It was slow at first the way the sickening sensation worked it’s slimy way into his veins. So slowly did it root itself into the deepest recesses of his mind. He had hardly noticed it until one day, upon deleting unnecessary information that Anderson had to rudely tossed his way, did he even realize that the emotion had found its home in his mind palace of all places. And, like a terrorist who has your heart by the very vessels it nourishes itself through, it refused to leave. Not to say he did not try his hardest to erase it from his memory banks; he screamed so hard from frustration that he could feel the prominent veins on his neck. This enemy was one he was finding he could not defeat, he could not blackmail into leaving him alone, he could not bargain with it for his sanity. Truly a terrorist this love disease.  
The great Sherlock Holmes, the genius himself, the self proclaimed sociopathic detective who stopped for no one, was in love. His nose scrunched in mild disgust at the thought. Only a loon believes in love. Yet here he was, head over heels one would say. All the signs pointed to love; elevated pulse, sweating at rather inappropriate times, pupils blown wide with want, shaking clammy palms. Such a disgrace, Sherlock…pull yourself together! But it was pointless to try, and try he had so many times; he was in love and he could feel himself falling further into it every second he breathed.  
Love was not his intention, no not at all. Love was the last of his intentions, so much so that he had forgotten the silly emotion existed. No, his intention was to simply find a flatmate. His bonus was finding John, the former military doctor who just so happened to have a slightly sick enjoyment for solving heinous crimes like he himself did. But this hell was what he had not intended; to fall in love with John Watson.  
Of course this was in no way a negative reflection on John. The doctor was a lovely person, kind, caring and strong willed. He was yes, a little short, but that was something Sherlock had discovered he found endearing. He wore atrocious jumpers in Sherlock’s opinion, but there again, simply endearing. John was in all, a perfect human being. And apparently Sherlock hadn't missed a beat of John’s perfection from the moment he set foot in that lab. The doctor had become a mild obsession for the detective, and an embarrassing one at that. Most days Sherlock’s stalking and prying could be passed off as experimenting, and depending on the ‘experiment’ and mood of the day, John would go along with things with minimal resistance. They started small, usually testing what teas John liked best, which foods improved his mood and which depleted his usual mirth. Most were simple, and then some were slightly more involved. Sherlock began stealing John’s shirts, the ones that had his cologne most present in their fibers, and tested a few things on himself. Was it his comrade’s scent that was driving him mad with blind feeling? Hardly, no mere mass produced bottle of aromas could do that to a simple person, and definitely not Sherlock.  
Yes, so it seemed this was truly an emotional attachment, something that was embedded deep in his mind and for some reason, enjoyed making appearances in his stomach whenever John entered a room or spoke his name. This love was irrational and a pest most days as well though. This love had brought a friend along for the ride; jealousy. The detective had never pegged himself as the jealous type, because it was a pointless emotion and one that led to irrational behavior and turned your brain to mush. Yet here he was, tracking John’s whereabouts more than usual, even going so far as to enlist Mycroft’s help. So John was watched like a hawk, and before the doctor himself knew even two things about any potential girlfriend, Sherlock knew her past, her likes and dislikes and all the reasons that John shouldn't be dating her. He made all his protests well known, and soon enough, John was breaking things off with woman after woman.  
Today of all days, John has chosen to stay home, no dates, no work…nothing. A day off for John is also a day off for Sherlock, but not in the relaxing sense. No, the detective’s mind will be unable to stop running around the calming and yet so exciting thoughts of his flatmate. From the way he walks to the way he breathes deeply before starting a new chapter in whatever silly novel he’s reading, Sherlock will be watching, committing every last blink to memory. John is resting on his chair, eyes closed but he has yet to fall asleep. Sherlock picked up his violin and after watching his flatmate for several unnecessary seconds, began playing a song that John hadn't yet heard. He kept his eyes closed though, ears picking up every last note as he fell further into relaxation. Sherlock noticed his obvious limpness, the small smile on his face and the way his chest was now falling and rising slowly. The bow skirting across the strings on his well used violin were lulling the former army doctor into a state of total relaxation and the detective would have it no other way. After several minutes on end of the soothing music floating its way around the lounge area, Sherlock stopped, taking note that John was indeed asleep now. Another successful experiment in the books then.  
Even as he slept, Sherlock had a difficult time tearing his eyes away from John. The lines on his forehead, implying he was dreaming of something that he found neither unpleasant nor agreeable; somewhere in the middle then. He was softly mumbling to himself as well, nothing of any consequence, mostly little hums and statements of agreement. His body remained slightly tensed despite his otherwise unconscious state of being. Always in the war, aren’t you? Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that formed on his lips as he surveyed his sleeping flatmate. A strong willed man, too kind for his own good, and daft to be seen with me on a daily basis. His lucky stars could not be thanked enough in Sherlock’s opinion, for the chance to have met John Watson.  
For such a compact person, Dr. Watson had made a larger than all existence impact on Sherlock’s life. From being a man soiled by former addiction, haunted by his past and hunted down by the worst criminals the world has ever known, John has brought him a sense of purpose. All previous endeavors that left a foul taste in his mouth were much less intimidating with John around. He wasn't a ‘freak’ anymore as Sally Donovan had so kindly taken to calling him. To John, Sherlock was a brilliant albeit eccentric man who wore his coat like a cape, saving people he cared so little about because under all the chaos that cluttered his beautiful brain, he knew it was the right thing to do. The detective could never help wondering whether that was all Sherlock was to him though, an outstanding human being he just so happened to room with and solve crimes along side. Why would I be anything more to a man like John Watson? A man who’s heart dwarfs my hardly existent one would have no feelings for me further than that of an acquaintance.  
To be an acquaintance of John Watson was nothing to turn your nose up at. And so Sherlock had not, even knowing John would continue to be so blissfully unaware of his flatmate’s feelings for him. He would continue to bring boring and unintelligent women around, date them, woo them, maybe…marry one someday? The thought gave Sherlock unpleasant chills whenever it had the displeasure of crossing his mind. As he watched his friend sleep, now a little restlessly, he pondered his options. There were several, but only few that were acceptable; killing any potential wives was out of the question, too much to explain to John. He could simply leave him, tell him he’s needed on another continent and the job is too dangerous. But knowing John, he’d stow away on the plane for a chance to feel the adrenaline in his veins as they hunted down any potential evil together. So, in retrospect, running from Dr. Watson was indeed also out of the question. Before he could delve deeper into his mind palace, his doctor began to stir. He is not mine, though I do wish him to be.  
Wide slate blue eyes met Sherlock’s, still retaining a bit of their former sleepiness. It was all the detective had in him not to run from him at that moment. Those eyes will be the death of me, John Watson. It was hardly a falsehood; John’s eyes entranced him the first time he saw them, endless pools with so much mystery in them that even Sherlock had a hard time deducing at first, regardless of what sort of game he talked in the cab ride. This man was a chalkboard, so many things written on him and erased poorly, so much evidence of his troubles and yet not enough to fix them. So much strength of will and yet fragile as ever in the right time and place. John cleared his throat, noticing Sherlock had yet to pull his gaze from his formerly sleeping form. While embarrassed, Sherlock managed to look away before his pale skin gave away his loss of dignity. Still looking out the window, he set his violin down and calmly asked, “Did you enjoy your nap?”  
He could hear John shuffling around in his seat slightly. Getting comfortable…he’s still tired though, his breathing is shallow and his heart rate is still somewhat slow…he is perspiring slightly…his deodorant has vaporized three times, implying his dream turned unpleasant roughly seven minutes before he awoke. The doctor furrowed his brows but thought nothing of his flatmate’s peculiar behavior, after all, that was Sherlock’s signature state of being, peculiar. After a somewhat shaken yawn, he was able to speak.  
“Erm, yeah, not bad. How long was I out?”  
Sherlock never met his gaze, simply shifting it from the window to his mobile, which was now vibrating.  
“Long enough for something new to happen…it’s Lestrade.”


	2. Trauma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second Chapter to From Within!  
> John storms out during an argument, that's when Sherlock receives a text he can't ignore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, un-beta'd!  
> I'm also just learning my way around AO3, so please keep with me and maybe toss me a few hints and tips if you think I could use them!

Disruptive sounds of doors slamming and heavy feet thudding their way up creaking stairs, two men who had in all honesty, had just about enough of each other for one night. The makeup of the evening was as of yet not looking very pleasing. When the duo had departed, Sherlock remained so silent, barely giving John an inkling of what Lestrade had in store for them at the crime scene. He remained his usual stock still self, stoic and intimidating. Acceptable behavior for such a situation would have been anything but this; he could have briefed John, make small talk, anything. Emotions were never the detective’s forte though. Love was even less his area. While John Watson did indeed have what heart he possessed, while the man did have his love and was trusted with his life, Sherlock could not bring himself to breach the subject. So full emotional shut down it was.  
Now here they were, an impasse it seemed. John was furious with him, and had every right to be. Sherlock had been an absolute terror at the scene; whiny, irrational and snapping at everyone he encountered including John. All of this with no explanation for his behavior on top of it all. Though giving an explanation would require coming to terms with the reality that while yes, Sherlock loved his colleague with every fiber of his being, truly would give his life in a heartbeat to see him smiling for a second longer, the truth as hard to swallow. John was dating again, a wiry obnoxious woman with finger nails like talons and a shrill laugh to top it all. He seemed quite taken with her, and avoided the subject at all costs when Sherlock attempted to derail the romance. There could be nothing for them, and that was a bit too much to accept.  
With John staring him down with daggers in his eyes, Sherlock finally broke the silence he had been somewhat comfortable in the entire ride home.  
“Well…that was fun, off to bed now though. Goodnight!” An escape was immediately thwarted as John narrowed his eyes, stepping in front of the turning man before he could stalk back to his room. He had that smile on his face, the one that is anything but joyful, more manic and anger filled if anything.  
“What the bloody hell was that, Sherlock?!” Feigning ignorance would likely see him nowhere, so the truth it had to be. While Sherlock Holmes could fool most anyone who happened to cross his path, John Watson was one man who could see through him. Not a day went by that the detective did not try and hide or lie about something, and not a day went by that the former army doctor did not call him out on it. Most days it was a bit of a turn on to have John crack his genius, but at this moment it was slightly terrifying. And Sherlock did not frighten easily.  
“You are referring to my less than adequate behavior this evening, for which I do apologize. It was in no way intended to be directed at you, though I understand I put you in the crossfire several times. Please, forgive me.” Attempting to side step the shorter man only put him in direct contact with a rather stiff arm extended to his torso, halting his movements any further. So this would not be easy, understood.  
“No, no you don't get out of this that easy tonight. Sherlock you were a complete embarrassment tonight! You shouted at Greg too many times to count, you completely humiliated Anderson—“  
“Oh, please as if he needs my help.”  
“Shut up and let me finish! You were a complete arse tonight and saying sorry won't fix that! You realize they call you not only because you're good at what you do, but because they actually like you a bit? It’s true, you're a complete prick and yet they still find you tolerable. But after tonight I’d be surprised if they want to see your face ever again!” Such a bitter tone from such a warm man. Unable to shut his own agape jaw, Sherlock stood before his colleague, completely unsure of what to do or say. Saying sorry always worked, and beyond that, John rarely if ever spoke to him in such disgust and anger. It hurt, so deep and so badly to have the one person he loved on this earth so cross with him.  
“You…you’re actually sore with me aren't you?”  
“Oh, good one, glad you worked that out! Honestly I—I’m staying at Charlotte’s tonight, I can't do this.” No. She could not have him, not tonight. Yes, he had been insufferable and yes, he was an egotistical pain in the arse man with no moral compass or sense of social normality, but this was beyond a proper punishment. That woman would care for him, talk to him, let him vent about how much he hated Sherlock at the moment. Kisses and touches would be exchanged, fond words, perhaps…yes. That would most definitely happen. Such a thought, the two of them together that way, was enough to force sick to rise in the detective’s throat.  
“John, please—“  
“Leave me be, Sherlock.” A final door slamming to finish the evening. Such a finality to that sound, Sherlock had always thought. It could mean so many things, such literal things too. When one closes, another opens. Where was the open door this time? John’s anger with him had manifested so much that if literally drove him from his presence. A man like John Watson should not have to deal with such venom and hostility. War had given him enough for a lifetime.  
Lonely and calling to him was Sherlock’s violin, visible in its open case on the shared desk against the peeling wall. Though John would never know, a song had been composed for him by the detective, one with soft notes and delicate changes. Love and adoration had been poured into that song. Affection and respect had been laced into each note written. Slowly, carefully the bow began its dance across worn strings. What was once a song Sherlock played in his love interest’s presence, though the shorter man would have likely not guessed it was a song written especially for himself, was now something that sounded like a death march. Filling the flat with such gloom and hopelessness.  
A sharp buzzing sound interrupted the melancholy tune and after brief inspection, Sherlock realized a text from John waited to be read. One could only describe the feeling in his chest as anxious foolish hope. Was there even such a thing? Sliding one slender digit over the home button revealed the text that was sending his heart pounding against his narrow rib cage.  
Sorry I ran out on you. Just need to clear my head. JW

Never apologize to me John. You had more than every right.  
I was out of line. I beg you, please forgive me. SH

I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Of course I forgive you. JW

How is your friend? SH

Dare he ask? Would he be told the worst, that she was being accommodating, sweet, loving…

Lovely, thanks. Off to bed. Night. JW

Sleep well John. SH  
Most definitely sleeping with her tonight. Rushed goodnight sentiments. Affectionate, no, overly affectionate description of her hosting skills. Delay between messages indicates distraction. One would not be able to achieve a decent night’s sleep with such foul images plaguing one’s mind. So, no sleep tonight. It would not be the first time, nor the last for that matter. That was one thing that was certain at least.  
A restless night it was; despite an iron willed determination to avoid sleep, Sherlock found himself strewn amongst his sheets mere hours later. Sweat glossed his knitted brow, pale chest heaving in the moon light as most unpleasant thoughts mocked him. For a genius, stupidity came easily, too easily, to the detective. One does not treat the one they love, the one they would simply die for, lower than the dirt they walk on. Yet, such a thing has happened, leaving the two with an uncomfortable distance between them, too much of one for Sherlock’s liking.  
Night hung heavy over his bed, shadows played in the corners of his room like taunting ghosts of his mistakes over the course of the evening. He needed a good case to distract him right now, but doubted Lestrade would bother contacting him much in the near future. His behavior had been absolutely appalling after all. Not likely a case would be enough to distract the detective from his thoughts anyway. Blue eyes, warm and strong hung in his memory. Soft blond greying hair, welcoming arms that beckoned to him. So many things he would never be able to call his own.  
No time for pondering hurtful images though as his mobile buzzed. Probably letting me know how intercourse with that detestable woman went.  
However, such a message was not waiting for him. A number, one he did not recognize and could not find stored in his memory bank, had laid before him a most confusing sentence.

'Will you miss him?'

Such a vague question to ask. In the time it took him to read the short text, another arrived. Disturbing and upsetting, it effectively answered his unspoken question.

'You do love John Watson so after all.'


	3. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson has a killer. Or at least, will very soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UN-BETA'D  
> No smut yet, don't worry your pretty little heads.

Many things were likely at this moment; whoever this person was, likely knew where John was at this moment. Whoever this person was knew that John was, in simplest terms, the center of Sherlock’s universe. And once again the detective would have to watch someone try and erase his universe. Try being the key word. This person was likely stupid, most people were. Well, all were except for John, and occasionally Mycroft when he was having a decent day. They were in all likelihood a fledgling killer, someone looking to entertain themselves, probably little to no understanding of what they had just gotten themselves into. Even in the rush of adrenaline and mild fear coursing through him, Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that crossed his lips at the thought of someone new to hunt down, and effectively end. Their first mistake was crossing him, their second…threatening John.  
Wasting time would be a grave mistake though; John would have no idea of any of this, so best to get started quickly. In a rush of silk and sheets, Sherlock was dressed in his robe and on his feet, texting the doctor in an attempt to bring him back home.  
Come home. Now. SH

There was little time before he sent out another text, impatient as always, pale fingers flying across his screen as his brow furrowed in frustration. She can't possibly be that important of a shag to ignore me. She can't be.  
Immediately. Very dangerous. SH

Ignored again. John left him no choice in retrospect, he had sent two straight forward texts, both indicating emergency and concern for his own life. The detective dressed quickly, choosing a midnight blue, tight fitting as always shirt. It reminded him of John’s eyes, the main reason he broke down and purchased it in the first place. He detested shopping, but his flatmate had urged him to buy new clothes after the small fire Sherlock had started in his bedroom. In his defense, it was for an experiment, and in all, it hadn't gone too terribly wrong. Much worse could have happened than a few ruined suits and some singed curtains.  
Before he could fasten his scarf around his neck, a text halted Sherlock’s steps. Finally.  
What’s wrong this time? If you need me to send a text for you to a serial killer you can piss off. JW

You said you were over that. Come home immediately. SH

Tell me why first. I’m a bit busy. JW

She can't possibly be that interesting. She’s seeing someone else behind your back anyway. Check her blouse from last Thursday, the pink one. You don't wear that cologne. Come. Home. Now. SH

Fuck off. JW

Check. SH  
A smirk was once again evident on the detective’s lips, knowing that he had correctly saved that information for the best time. She was a dull person, lacking any inciting qualities. He was doing John yet another favor. It needn't matter that these little favors he offered him happened to benefit Sherlock as well, that was an afterthought. A rather large afterthought.

Coming home. JW  
And not a moment too soon. Regardless of loose women and cheap nights in used bedsheets, there was someone bent on ending John Watson’s life out there.  
To lose that man would be, well, the end of all things. Would the moon still glow in that menacing yet inviting way? Would people still go about their lives? Would breathing ever come easily again? Certainly not. John was his best friend, his purpose in life. There would be nothing left to live for if John Watson ceased to walk this earth in his plushy oatmeal jumpers.  
Losing him once was an ordeal Sherlock did not wish to live through again. Yes, in retrospect, he had been the one to jump off that bloody building and leave his doctor for two years. John had remained single in that time presumably, too grief stricken by the loss of his best friend to think about much else. The doctor only began dating again once he knew Sherlock was home and safe, not leaving him again for the foreseeable future. A time span of around three months. Too much time for most, almost too little for Sherlock’s liking. If only he ruled the world.  
Too much time was passing for the detective’s liking. No information came forth from his mystery texter, thought he did not expect much to for a while. If the potential killer was smart, they were avoiding him for the time being. Any information, relevant or otherwise, would only lead Sherlock closer to finding him and effectively ending his existence. Perhaps that was what they ultimately would wish for, so many killers did. They wanted to be caught, put in the lime light, feared publicly then ultimately struck down in a blaze of idiotic glory. John would need to be informed of his situation as soon as possible. His safety was at risk and that was simply something the detective would not allow. A world without John Watson; how pointless.  
Waiting for his doctor to arrive back home was proving almost as boring as the woman he left in the first place. In a sweep of dramatic sighs and lanky limbs, the detective was on his feet again, lazily climbing the stairs to his flatmate’s room. John wouldn't be home just yet, and sometimes being in his room helped Sherlock think a bit better. Surrounded by those musky smells, those spicy smells of whatever foreign cologne he wore. It was still a mystery to Sherlock how he managed to alter every boring scent with his body chemistry into something nearly mouthwatering. Upon entering the cluttered space, he was met with said smells. Enticing as always. Shirts, both used and clean alike, were almost artfully scattered around the room. It was obvious the detective’s constant need for John prevented him from maintaining any sort of army-like cleaning habits. Simply no time when you're the colleague of the great Sherlock Holmes.  
A particular case that had previously gone unnoticed caught Sherlock’s eye. It was old, but not ill-taken care of. Newly polished brass clasps; taken care of regularly then. Curiosity got the best of him and almost immediately Sherlock was tugging the rather large case out from under John’s bed. What he doesn't know won’t hurt him. The clasps came undone easily and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat as he marveled over the case’s contents. Military fatigues. Military combat fatigues to be specific. They would have been on his doctor’s short frame during battle, while he was tending to wounded soldiers on the field. They were still a bit dirty; some sort of sick yet endearing sentiment that only John could have for such things. Perhaps they were the fatigues. In nimble hands, Sherlock turned the uniform to see just how sickeningly right he was. There was still blood on the camouflaged fabric. Torn in a disturbing fashion. The nearly unshakable man suddenly felt a bit ill. As he was about to replace everything where he found it, a small glimmer caught his eye within the bottom of the case. Quickly, like a child finding something shiny to play with, Sherlock snatched up the chain to further examine it.  
Dog tags. Not recently polished. Perhaps never polished since invalidation. These were not something John cared for. Well, maybe not in those words. These were things John cared for so much that it was hard to face them everyday. So neglected at the bottom of a case under bloody fatigues it was then. The detective rather like them, they screamed John all over them. They gave him a strange sense of calm, easing his anxiety over recent events. It was unlikely John would stay cross with him long. Delicately, Sherlock strung them over his head to rest on the flat of his sternum. They felt like they belonged there. His doctor with him at all times.  
Before the detective could get too sentimental, the front door slammed and heavy footsteps were fast approaching. In swift and silent movements, Sherlock stuck the case back under the bed and left the room, running smack into John.  
“Jesus, sorry Sher—are you wearing my dog tags?” He can't stay mad for long.   
“Yes. You're getting sharper you know, perhaps being around me is doing you some good after all.” That didn’t throw the army doctor though.  
“May I ask why you’re wearing my tags, Sherlock?”  
“Is it illegal for me to do so?”  
“Well…no,” John uncomfortably sighed, “but why are you wearing them?”  
“I decided to have a look through your things—oh don't give me that look you know I do that—and stumbled across them.” The detective gave a sharp turn and dramatically gaited down the steps to the lounge area. John, still a little dumbstruck and honestly a bit flustered at the sight of his flatmate in his dog tags, followed after a brief moment of shock.  
“I don’t mind you wearing them, you know…just don’t know why you’d want to.” He mumbled under his breath, turning into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea. Sherlock snapped his head up from his thinking position, eyes incredulously scanning the doctor for any signs of falsehoods. He seemed to be telling the truth, and sporting a rather adorable blush as well.  
“I’m wearing them because I like them, captain.” That did it. John had to physically turn away from his flatmate now. Why did that word uttered in such rich baritone made his throat close. His skin perspire and his hand tremble.  
“Right, yes, that’s all fine then. They look just fine on you, so keep them. Now, why did you rush me home?” Sherlock couldn't help but smirk at the doctor’s obvious frustration, he looked too sweet when he was caught off guard.  
“Four words, John Watson, four words…you’ve got a killer.”


	4. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John feels like a princess stowed away in the highest room of the tallest tower. Sherlock is for once not the most dramatic person in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, NO BETA so I apologize for any awful errors.  
> Let me know if you are enjoying this piece :)

Rain was clearly audible from inside the flat of 221B. Of course it would rain, of course tonight or rather this very early morning, could still get just that bit worse. John pursed his lips, trying and failing to block out the incessant sound of the small splashes against the windows of the sitting room while he attempted to process what Sherlock was telling him. There’s always a killer, and more often than not they’re after him specifically because as many criminals had figured out, John was Sherlock’s pressure point.   
It had been so long since Sherlock had come back, scaring him half to death at his own dumpy little flat he got about a year after the detective’s false death. Well, scared was the first of many emotions, the most prevalent being anger and hurt. He had mourned, grieved, positively wailed when he thought no one could hear him. Sherlock’s death had hurt him more than he thought possible, so yes, it only made sense that they were each other’s pressure points.   
Sherlock had made it a grand point upon his return to convince John that he felt the pain of his doctor’s absence as well. While he was galavanting around god only knew where, John was on his mind everyday. Though the detective had made it a point to leave out the extent at which his feelings dwelled, no need to scare John off.  
So here they stood, Sherlock dramatically enlightening John to the possibility of his demise and John not really giving a damn. After all, this was constantly happening it seemed. His only real concern was what they wanted from or with Sherlock. While John had never admitted it, and barely allowed himself to say it to himself, he did have a rather great fondness of his flatmate. One that definitely stretched beyond the barrier of just friends. And while the consulting detective had made it quite apparent that he could indeed handle himself quite well in the face of danger, John couldn't help worrying after him. Especially since his return from the dead. He had Sherlock back where he needed him, where he wanted him, and that wasn't something he wanted to lose again. Not a second time.  
Pale fingers snapped him impatiently back into reality, impossibly full lips pursed in exasperation. John shook himself from his thoughts, ones that had briefly begun to linger into dangerous territory regarding those plush lips, and grounded himself back into the moment. A killer, after him, and of course after Sherlock. His main concern was Sherlock, so his mind needed to be focused on the case. With a slight slump of his shoulders, his arms still firmly crossed in front of his relaxed chest, he managed to speak up in a stutter, “Right, where were we? Someone’s after me again are they?”  
The detective eyed his flatmate suspiciously before pressing forward, all signs of deduction now vacant from his gaze. John made a relatively unnoticeable sigh in relief; the last thing he needed was Sherlock questioning his previous thoughts. That luscious baritone grating down on his already guilty conscious would be too much. Pale blue eyes darting around erratically, like a child’s on christmas, before eloquent words spewed from between firm pressed lips.  
“Yes, John, it appears so.”  
“Right. Any clues? Any leads yet?” If it was someone as crafty as Moriarty, there may actually be cause for concern. Their usual set of criminals were boring as far as their motives went. Most wanted some publicity, some cared for the prospect of money, but there were few who actually posed much of a threat. John almost wished for a challenging one this go around. It was in that thought that he shuddered a bit, mentally scolding himself for allowing Sherlock to so greatly rub off on him in that regard.  
Sherlock couldn't help but stare a bit bewildered at his flatmate. Always so easy to underestimate John. But when the chips were down, so to speak, there he was, level-headed and ready for battle. Always a bit too ready for battle Sherlock thought bitterly.  
“John…this is difficult. We can’t take any chances here.” The detective’s face fell as he spoke, his hands clenched in his lap. John, his John, was in danger and as of yet, there seemed to be no solution. Well, no solution that John would be comfortable with. The obvious initial plan to Sherlock was to coop John up in the flat and never let him out of his sight until the killer was apprehended and taken to justice. Preferably that justice would involve torturous methods. But John Watson was not a man who negotiated with criminals and was even less a man to hide from them. It never hurt to broach the subject though…right? If John accepted the conditions of Sherlock’s suggestion, then the detective would have his way; a safe John and a go at a possible serial killer. It was win-win. So with a sigh, he began again.  
“What I am about to say isn't easy, and you will not enjoy hearing it but please—“  
“Sherlock, christ whatever it is just get on with it. We’re wasting seconds talking which could be spent hunting this guy down.” Sherlock couldn't help the smirk that crossed his lips; John, always so blunt. The army doctor held a firm line in his mouth, jaw set and eyes ready for the worst. So the worst it was.  
“John, we really can't have you running about on this one. Now please before you—“ “Excuse me?! I can't be running about on this, yeah?” Ah, anger, exactly what the detective had been hoping to avoid. An angry John was never pleasant. It helped even less that in some dark part of Sherlock’s mind, John being cross with him made his heart hurt, it made his world chaos. He really had to learn to deal with that somehow.  
“John, please you’re being a drama queen again—“  
“Oh yeah, because I’m always the dramatic one of the two of us! Mr. “The Game Is On” but I’m the dramatic one!” Okay, fair point there, Sherlock thought with a bitter taste.  
“No matter. John you can't deny that this case is unsafe for you to be on. The killer is targeting you specifically—“  
“What about Moriarty, huh? What about when he had me strapped up and ready to be blown to bits at that bloody pool, why wasn't it safe for me to be on that case then?” John spat angrily, immediately regretting his choice of words as he saw his flatmate flinch at the memory. It was a sore one for the both of them, John for obvious reasons. But for Sherlock, reasons John could never understand. They were friends, best friends, but Sherlock always looked so very hurt when memories like that came up.  
“I had no idea he would use you against me that way, John, and you know that full well!” The usually silky albeit sarcastic baritone now roared in anger. Now it was John’s turn to flinch; such an elegant man, such a beautiful creature with such a lilting voice now speaking with such anger and…pain? It seemed unnatural. An uncomfortable chill settled between the two, silence filling the air. They had perhaps gotten their frustrations out, though on each other wasn't perhaps the healthiest way to have done it. It got their points across though, now was the time for decisions; would John accept his terms?  
“John…please. I know asking this of you is like asking a wolf to cease howling but please you must trust me. I will handle this individual, you must trust that. But I can't have you along side me this time, not while the target is on your back. You must stay here until this man is taken down.” John’s gaze darted to the floor. Such a large request this was, did the detective really know just how much he was asking? This was the life style that John had grown to love, crave really. Adrenaline pumping in his veins, the thrill of never knowing which step could be the last. The feeling of being by the side of the world’s only consulting detective, a man who had escaped death and returned like a bloody angel. The feeling of being by Sherlock Holmes’s side was unparalleled. His hand subconsciously clenched at the thought of being separated from the man he had grown attached to, far too attached to. Hadn't he told John once, caring was not an advantage? Well, he was far past caring. His heart physically ached for the detective. It was a real shame he would never be able to tell him. Curse the plight of the romantic he thought bitterly.  
“Fine, fine have it your way. If you need me, I’ll be up in my tower waiting to be saved, your majesty.” John spat out, turning on his heels and retreating to his room, steps heavy and childish on the wooden stairway. Sherlock rolled his eyes, reclaiming his spot on the couch, hands steepled under his chin, back to chipping away at the case.  
Several hours later, perhaps eight or more, the detective came out of his near comatose state. He was slightly closer to solving the case, though the next part would require contacting Mycroft which he was hardly looking forward to doing. With a frustrated sigh, he raised himself, stretching kinks in his neck before the thoughts of earlier flooded his mind. John…more specifically John being angry. He scrunched his nose as the unpleasantness of the thought. He supposed that in his haste to keep his flatmate safe, perhaps he could have overlooked the army doctor’s pride. He should have at least tried to save that for him. No turning back time now, though he did wish to check in on his sleeping friend. Protective nature was beginning to run rampant in his veins, something that should be reined in if waters between he and John were to remain calm. John already felt as though his rights and capabilities were being stripped from him, no need to feel like a helpless maiden on top of it all.  
The detective used silent steps to reach the door of his friend’s room. It was slightly ajar, probably a sign of submissiveness on John’s part, an apology of sorts and a willingness to proceed with these somewhat ridiculous measures. Upon opening it further, Sherlock was stricken speechless at the sight he had for so long wished to see. A sleeping John was never hard to come by, Sherlock often ran him ragged on cases and so would fall asleep on the couch or his chair. But a truly sleeping John, a peaceful one wearing a tight fitting shirt, nothing but his pants covering strong legs, sheets covering a well muscled torso, now that was a sight to see. He looked…fragile. He looked like he would be warm and easy to cuddle up to, should one be a painfully boring woman with large breasts and a short attention span. The longer the detective stared, the more his heart hurt. To keep John Watson safe was a priority, to lose him was a fate worse than death. Sherlock sighed as silently as he could before whispering more to himself than the sleeping form a mere five strides from him.  
“I will keep you safe John…even if my life is the price for such a thing.” It was once, it could be again. While it would hurt John beyond repair to lose Sherlock again, it was not something the detective would not do again if it meant keeping the army doctor alive another day.


End file.
